


A Cookie-Cutter Sort of Feeling

by Dreadful Weather Today (TearoomSaloon)



Series: Trinkets [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Baking, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, do you hear what I hear?, it's like snow, look at all this fluff, said the psycho cannibal to the little lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1496680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/Dreadful%20Weather%20Today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had a whisk. He had a whisk, a spatula, and a wooden spoon. There was chocolate on his nose and flour in his hair. She was free of mess, of course, with her baking prowess and what felt like a thousand Christmas cookies in his dining room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cookie-Cutter Sort of Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt was Alana and Hannibal baking together. And it's too cute stop me now.

There were so many things on the counter. Egg cartons, milk, cream, all-purpose flour, cake flour, baking soda, baking powder, butter, half-and-half, salt, granulated sugar, powdered sugar, light and brown sugar, cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, honey, vegetable oil, shortening, chocolate chips, butterscotch, food coloring, vanilla extract, almond extract, lemon rind, flower petals, espresso, peanut butter, strawberries, apple slices, vinegar, ricotta, cocoa powder, baking chocolate, molasses, caramel—it was a  _mess_.

He'd never seen this many things on his cutting boards, not even after huge grocery trips. It didn't take this much to prepare a dish—it didn't take this much to make  _anything_ he'd served, and his head was swimming with all the ingredients.

"Why are you doing this again?"

"Christmas in three days, not ready, no time." Alana ducked down to the lower oven, pulling out a batch of intricately decorated cookies, carefully brushing past him to set the hot sheet cool on one of the (few) empty racks in the dining room. "I'm disappointing my mother."

"By making enough desserts to feed an army?"

"By not being finished two days ago." She tossed the oven mitts onto one of the counters before swirling around to toss more ingredients into a huge silver mixing bowl.

"What is that going to be?"

"Bûche de Noël," she said quickly, stripping chocolate wrappers into the trash. "The more questions you ask, the slower this'll go."

"A French dessert?"

"My mom wasn't the Jewish one," she snapped. "She was  _very_  Christian and  _very_  French."

He opened his mouth again and she spit a warning in French, stress levels raging higher and higher in her small body.

Hannibal sighed and breached her sanctuary, wrapping his arms around her and pinning her hands to her sides.

She exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry I keep barking. I'm under a lot of pressure right now, pressure to be the good daughter and step in for my mother where my brother and sister won't." She shuffled around, burying her face in his chest. "I don't mean it."

"I know."

"I've been extremely rude today. And yesterday. And the day before."

"Which is understandable; your body and mind are reacting to the stress."

"That doesn't excuse it."

"No, but it does mean I'll forget it." He kissed her forehead. "Is there anything I can assist with?"

* * *

He had a whisk, a cookbook, and no clue what was happening. He wasn't a baker, not like Alana. Alana was a sugarcoated goddess—everything she touched turned a beautiful golden brown and tasted like childhood around open fires and trees covered in tinsel. He could do extravagant desserts, but nothing like this. Nothing for this long, nothing this huge, nothing this  _intense_ . She didn't even look tired.

She glanced up from her meticulous whisking of ganache and laughed. "You have flour  _everywhere_."

He rolled his eyes and glared, regretting this offer of assistance.

She reached up and brushed flour from his hair, giggling. He held back a grin, watching as she swished around to put the ganache in the fridge.

"How many more cookies are you going to pack into my dining room?"

"A few more batches. Maybe ten." She bit her lip. "Or twenty."

"How many relatives do you  _have_ , Alana?"

"Too many." She licked a finger, making eye contact.

He turned away quickly, slightly embarrassed.

"You have to prepare yourself for that; it’ll be happening the whole weekend. Oh, and thank you for agreeing to come."

"Could I refuse?” He was certainly going to refuse her suggestive gestures—that is, unless he could get her caught.

“Well, yeah, you could have. You don’t need to meet my dad or my aunts or my cousins or my siblings.” She frowned, upset. “Or Charlie’s wife, Louisa’s fiancé, all the cats, my niece—”

“Alana my dear, you’re stressing again.”

“I’m always stressed when my siblings are involved. They’re doing so much _better_ than me. Married with a kid or engaged and pregnant, both with big corporate jobs.”

“I think this—” he gestured his mess of a kitchen, “—is in response to feeling inferior to older siblings.”

“Maybe. Probably. Absolutely.”

He rested his hands on her hips, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. “You’ve already proven yourself, love. There are more cookies here than I’ve seen in most bakeries. I don’t think your mother would be disappointed.”

She grinned, nudging up onto tiptoes to kiss him. “I’m also bringing you.”

“Oh, I’m a trophy now?”

She laughed, smoothing down errant strands of his ash-gold hair. “ _No_ , because you remind me that I’m doing just as well as them.”

He smiled at her honesty. “I’d argue that you’re doing _far_ better.”

            


End file.
